


Acquiescent

by tastewithouttalent



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Spit As Lube, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-06 20:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18396206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Ronald should have known Frate couldn’t handle it." As maintaining Frate's self-confidence demands more and more of Ronald's effort, Ronald finds some pleasure for himself in the work.





	Acquiescent

Ronald should have known Frate couldn’t handle it.

It’s been there this whole time, written into the tremor of the other’s mouth and the slump of his shoulders and even the freckles across his cheeks that strip away what strength there might be in the increasing maturity of the years passing them by. Frate looks weak, acts weak,  _ is _ weak, and no amount of Ronald propping him up is ever going to change that fact. Ronald knew that before they ever began this, before he ever leaned into the illusion of intimacy and murmured the first seed of suggestion into Frate’s ear; in many ways he has been counting on it, given how entirely his manipulation must guide the other’s actions. But Frate has crumbled, folded under the pressure of their -- of Ronald’s -- attempted coup, and the deeper they go the more Ronald finds his efforts turned less towards hiding his effect on the other and more towards just keeping Frate from disintegrating into a complete breakdown.

The drugs help. They’re hardly suitable to keep Frate coherent or functional, but they strip the tremor from his fingers and ease his breathing from the panic he drives himself to whenever he’s left to his own devices, or even sometimes when Ronald is trying to talk him down, now. Increasingly it’s only with their aid that Frate sleeps at all, and that stirred to restless delirium by nightmares. In the last week even the cocaine and the booze haven’t been enough to strip consciousness from Frate’s white-knuckled grip on it, at least not without days of accumulated exhaustion to drive him into it.

Ronald has been watching the tension build all evening, watched strain rise to anxiety rise to the dangerous edge of paranoia in Frate’s position at the other end of the couch. He’s slumped forward right now, his elbows pressing to his knees and his hands bracing his head in a perfect image of a man driven to the very cliff edge of despair. The paper wrapper he snatched from Ronald’s outstretched hand is lying on the table, long-since unfolded and dropped alongside the glass now as empty of alcohol as the wrapper is of the drug, but in the hour that has passed since Frate has only collapsed in on himself, as if clinging the more tightly to his stress against the joint efforts of alcohol and cocaine to strip him of it. Ronald looks at Frate next to him, the slump of his shoulders and the bruises of insomnia smudged deep under heavy lashes; and then he brings his own glass to his lips, and tips it back to let the burn of liquor course down his throat and uncoil into his belly before he sets it down on the table with decisive certainty and leans in to reach for the bottle again.

“You’re worrying again,” he says, as if Frate has managed to stop worrying at any point in the last month. “I thought you trusted me more than this, Frate.” He turns the bottle to spill another measure of liquor into Frate’s glass, overfilling it before he splashes a refill into his own and sets the bottle down at the table. When he reaches out it’s to pick up Frate’s cup instead of his own and hold it out as he leans in and reaches out to brace the full weight of his arm around the other’s hunched shoulders. “I keep telling you everything’s going to be fine.”

“How do you know?” Frate says without lifting his head from his hands. “Everything is going wrong, Ronald. I thought it was supposed to be simple.” He shakes his head; his fingers curl to tighten into his hair. “Nothing is simple now.”

“It’s still simple,” Ronald tells him with all the force of certainty he can bring to the words, and punctuates with his arm tightening around Frate’s narrow shoulders. “Nothing’s changed. We’re still going to see this through, just like we talked about.” He shakes Frate in his hold, pulling hard enough to dislodge the other from his slumped-forward misery; Frate’s hands fall from his hair, his balance giving way to tip him in against the support of Ronald’s chest. Ronald draws the glass in closer so he can offer it to Frate’s hazy attention and Frate’s head lifts, his gaze caught by the glint of the desk lamp illuminating the cut-glass tumbler.

“It’ll be easy,” Ronald tells him, and holds the glass in closer as if to urge it to Frate’s mouth himself. “Just trust me, Frate.”

Frate blinks. The movement is slow and sticky, showing the effect of the drug or the alcohol or both together. “I have to,” he says, his voice as bleary as his gaze, and he lifts his hand to claim the glass so he can bring it to his lips. He swallows fast, tossing it back as if in imitation of his brother, or of Ronald himself, but his throat tightens on the burn and he ends up coughing instead of swallowing smoothly. Ronald reaches to take the empty glass from Frate’s shaking hand while the other is still coughing into the palm he has pressing over his damp lips, and keeps his steadying arm around the other even as he tips forward to set the glass back against the edge of the table. Frate goes on coughing for a handful of seconds, his breathing catching on his inhales until Ronald wonders if it isn’t tears threatening his breath more than the ache of the alcohol, and even once he’s collected himself he just drops his hand heavy into his lap and lets his head hang forward into the picture of defeat. “There’s no way I can do any of this on my own, not now.”

Ronald tightens his arm around Frate’s shoulders, pressing close as he shakes as if to urge cheer into the other’s position by force. “Come on, that’s no reason to sound so discouraged,” he says. “Everyone counts on other people. You think fucking Nero got to where he is all on his own?” Ronald reaches for his own glass and brings it to his mouth to swallow fast before slamming the cup back to the table for punctuation. “I’d think you’d know better than anyone how much got handed to him on a silver platter.” Frate lifts his head fractionally to look up at Ronald with eyes as wet as his alcohol-marked lips, and Ronald looks down to meet the despair in the other’s gaze with the solid self-assurance of his own. “You don’t have anything to worry about, not when you’ve got me to back you up.”

Frate’s mouth trembles. “Will you?” he says, and it’s a child’s tone in his voice, now, a whimper of someone a decade younger than the ostensible man only upright thanks to the hold of Ronald’s arm around him. When he blinks his eyes swim with wet, his gaze visibly struggling to hold onto Ronald’s features even as close as they are. “You’ll take care of me, Ronald?”

Ronald doesn’t comment on the shift in Frate’s phrasing. Frate isn’t the right person for this, wasn’t even when Ronald picked him out for it; but he’s what he has to work with, and that means he has to be held together, at least long enough for Ronald to achieve the goals he’s aiming for. He ducks his head into a nod and tightens his grip on Frate’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll take care of you. You can count on me.”

Frate shudders a sigh of such relief it seems to drain all the strength from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says, his voice shaking with such gratitude that it throws over all his self-respect at once to fall into Ronald’s lap. His eyes are overbright with the glassy shine of tears; his mouth is shining with the damp of the alcohol he choked on. Ronald can see his lips shift and tremble as Frate swallows in an attempt to regain composure he never really had in the first place. “I’m grateful to you, Ronald.”

Ronald looks at Frate: caught close in the curve of his arm, eyes wet and mouth soft and gazing up at him with shattered-open vulnerability in his gaze, at his mouth, heavy in his shoulders and trembling in his hands. He looks fractured, a heap of pieces instead of the whole he once was, perhaps, sometime before Ronald found the cracks that run straight through whatever identity Frate claimed for himself. He’s broken, shattered as surely as a bullet would shatter one of the empty glasses on the table to dust, and Ronald can feel himself settle into intention, can feel a decision forming itself at the back of his mind as quickly as the heat of his drink spreads into his veins and fits itself to a fist at the base of his cock.

Ronald doesn’t hesitate. Leave it to the Frates of the world to tremble, to fret, to work themselves into panic and paranoia until all that is left is to collapse under the weight of their own self-doubt. Ronald has never doubted himself a day in his life, never questioned the supremacy of his perspective in a world that has by and large given way for his own intensity; and so his decision is as quickly felt as acted upon, as soon commitment as observation. His hand at the back of Frate’s shoulder slides, his palm lifts to press restraint to the back of the other’s head, and he leans forward, crossing the distance to Frate and pressing his mouth firmly to damp-parted lips at one and the same time.

Frate gives way at once. Ronald can feel it in him, in the slump of his shoulders and the shape of his mouth softening as the first surge of relief, of heat, of pleasure eclipses even the anxiety that has formed the closest thing to a backbone he is ever likely to have. Ronald pushes against that surrender, leaning in to claim control as quickly as the other cedes it. His hand supports Frate’s head as he presses them down, his shoulders come in to overshadow the wrinkled suit and lopsided tie hung around Frate’s body; by the time Frate comes to himself enough to even lift a hand to Ronald’s shirt, Ronald has him pinned down to the cushions of the couch, one knee bracing between Frate’s sprawled legs and his free hand holding against the arm of the sofa. Ronald urges Frate’s mouth open with the force of his tongue, licking in against the alcohol-burn and powder-bitter clinging to the other’s lips while Frate’s jaw goes slack in utter surrender and the fingers at Ronald’s shirt tighten and pull. It’s only when Ronald shifts his weight to slide his thigh up between Frate’s own and angles his hips down to press his rising arousal against the resistance of the other’s body that Frate tenses beneath him, and even then the push at Ronald’s shirt is so shaky that Ronald finishes his appreciation of Frate’s mouth before he pulls back to give himself the option to speak.

“What?” he says, with more of a growl on the word than he usually uses, with Frate, more than he usually ever needs to use to claim the other’s surrender. “You wanna tell me you don’t want this?”

Frate struggles to open his eyes, and more to bring his gaze into focus. Even after his best attempts his lashes drift heavy over his bleary gaze, and his lips hang open like he can’t recall how to press his mouth closed. He blinks hard and shakes his head, to clear his thoughts or to reject Ronald’s question, Ronald doesn’t care which.

“What about--” Frate’s throat works, his gaze slides away. “What about Fio?”

Ronald rolls his eyes. “Fio,” he repeats, again without smoothing his voice to carefully unctuous calm. “What the hell about Fio?”

“She’s your wife,” Frate says, still without meeting Ronald’s gaze. “And my sister. If I...with you…”

Ronald heaves a sigh. “Fio hates my guts,” he says, the statement stripped down to unvarnished truth. Frate’s gaze jumps up to meet Ronald’s again, dragged there by shock, now, instead of anxiety, and Ronald meets it without flinching. “She married me for the politics of it and we all know it. Probably she’d thank you for keeping me distracted for a night or two.”

Ronald slides his knee higher, until the top of his thigh is riding close against the front of Frate’s pants. When he rocks forward it’s with his head tipped down so he can watch Frate’s eyes go dark on heat, can see Frate’s lips go slack on a dragging groan from the strain of the other’s chest. Ronald grins as much with satisfaction as arousal and leans forward again to press his lips against the shape of Frate’s ear.

“I promise your pretty sister never made sounds like that for me,” he says, purring the words in the back of his throat, and he rocks forward again to pin his hips to Frate’s, letting his weight grind against the other’s arousal as the shudders of Frate’s body slide pleasant friction over his own. “You don’t really want me to stop.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Frate doesn’t offer any answer beyond another whimper that breaks into pleading height in his throat. Ronald tightens his grip on the arm of the couch so he can hold himself steady as he frees his hand from under Frate’s head and reaches down for the buckle of the other’s belt. “If the drugs and the booze won’t put you to sleep I can figure out some other way to knock you out.”

Frate’s fingers twist into Ronald’s shirt. There’s force enough there to pull the fabric into grooves around the shape of the other’s fingers but it’s late enough that Ronald’s clothes can show some wear, and at the moment he doesn’t really care enough to protest anyway. Frate’s mouth is still open on the shape of a plea he’s too dizzy or too embarrassed to voice, and if Frate isn’t going to speak to the desire pressing him hard against the front of his pants Ronald is willing enough to claim it for the both of them. He leans in over Frate again to catch the give of the other’s mouth entirely with his own, and as he pushes his tongue past Frate’s lips he echoes the movement with his hand against Frate’s unfastened fly. His hand slides down, his fingers reach, and when Frate jerks up against the friction of Ronald’s grip Ronald licks deeper into his mouth to draw the sound of a moan free of his chest as much by his tongue as by his grip.

Frate has no sense of composure. Ronald didn’t expect him to; he can hardly keep himself together with no more to distract his thoughts than stress and insomnia, and with several glasses of alcohol to haze the effects of the cocaine, it’s a minor miracle he’s still conscious under Ronald’s touch at all. But he is, and taut with it; his cock is hard enough, however trembling-weak the movement of his legs may be, and he arches up against the weight of Ronald’s body when the other tightens his hold and jerks up over him. His cheeks flush hot at once, his gaze slides out-of-focus while his lashes are still damp with unshed tears, and when his breathing starts to rasp against Ronald’s cheek Ronald pulls back to free Frate’s mouth to form whatever incoherent sounds his grip may pull from the other. He steadies himself over Frate’s body beneath him, flexing his shoulder to hold himself clear of the other’s chest and the stroking work of his grip drawing over Frate’s length, and beneath him Frate gasps and whimpers and turns his head to the side as if to hide his expression, as if his face will give more away than the feel of his cock throbbing in Ronald’s hold. Ronald can still see the flutter of his lashes, can still track the shape of an unvoiced plea at his lips, and when he twists his wrist and jerks up hard he can see the jolt of orgasm blow Frate’s eyes wide and tip his head back on the spastic force of pleasure. Frate whimpers in his throat, and quivers beneath Ronald’s body, and Ronald pulls to spill him wet and sticky over the bottom inches of his untucked shirt.

Frate sags to the couch as soon as Ronald lets him go. His eyes are still open, his lips still parted, but he looks so dazed Ronald would be surprised to hear him muster speech, much less anything of real coherency or value. His fingers at Ronald’s shirt fall free, his arm drops to hang slack over the edge of the couch, and when his lashes dip it seems a minor infinity before he musters the strength to lift them again. Ronald can see the weight of exhaustion crushing over him, layering itself into Frate’s body and mind with irresistible intensity, and when Frate’s lashes drop again Ronald frees his hold on the other’s softening cock and lifts his hand to smack gently against Frate’s cheek.

“Hey,” Ronald says, deliberately loud so he can make it into the haze that is rapidly sweeping Frate away from any kind of attention. Frate’s lashes rise for a moment, his head turns to answer the sound, but there’s no recognition in his gaze, and it’s only Ronald gripping at his chin that keeps his head upright instead of falling back to the support of the couch. “You’re not done yet, Frate, that isn’t how this works.” Frate makes a sound in the back of his throat that Ronald generously accepts as a query instead of the protest it could easily be intended as. “I got you off, now it’s your turn.” Ronald lets Frate’s chin go so he can reach for the slack weight of the other’s hand instead and draw his palm in to shove roughly against the front of his own pants, where the weight of his arousal is pulling taut at the fabric. Frate’s gaze drops, something like clarity coming back into his gaze, and Ronald slides his hand down to cradle Frate’s palm into the shape of intention against him.

“What’s it to be?” Ronald asks. “You can jerk me off, that’s fine. Or use your mouth, if you’d like that better.”

Frate’s forehead creases, his brows drawing together over the exhausted haze of his eyes. “I don’t--” he says, and shakes his head.

“Don’t what?” Ronald asks him. “Don’t want to?”

Frate shakes his head again. “No,” he says. “I don’t know how.” He lifts his gaze back to Ronald’s own; his eyes are clouded, the green of them foggy and unfocused. “Just--” He lifts his free hand from where it’s lying heavy against the couch and reaches up to touch his fingers to Ronald’s face. Ronald can feel them trembling under their own weight before Frate swallows and finds speech. “Take care of it for me, Ronald?”

Ronald looks down at Frate. Frate’s expression is soft, slack even with his eyes open and struggling for attention against Ronald’s face; he looks weak, unraveled, as if Ronald’s grip on him pulled free the last of his tension and took with it any hope he might ever have of being the man he thinks he wants to be. He’s no more now than he has ever been, good for no more than the puppet Ronald has made of him; and Ronald can feel his cock jerk inside his slacks in answer, throbbing with heat as if answering the call of Frate’s parted lips and shaky voice.

Ronald ducks his head into a nod. “Alright,” he says, and he reaches down while Frate is still lowering his lashes on relief and letting his hand drop from Ronald’s face to drape across his own chest. His hand fits around Frate’s hip, his grip braces tight against the unresisting weight of the other’s body, and when he pulls Frate goes with him, dragged to turn onto his side under Ronald. Frate gasps a breath and reaches to fumble a hand out between his face and the cushions of the couch, but Ronald is moving without the exhausted slowness of the other’s action, and when he shoves Frate topples over to sprawl face-down at the cushions of the sofa. His shirt is rumpled free of the waistband of his pants already, sliding up to puddle around his waist, and with the buckle of his belt and the fly of his pants already undone all Ronald has to do is wrap his grip around Frate’s waistband and pull to strip him bare to the middle of his thighs.

Frate makes a noise in the back of his throat, muffled by the couch out of any real hearing, but Ronald is more interested in the suggestion made by the other’s position on his knees and stripped naked below his waist. He rocks back, freeing his hold at the far side of the couch so he can bring his hand up to his mouth, and he pushes two fingers in to lick as much wet against them as he can get as he reaches out with his free hand to dig his fingers in and squeeze against the give of Frate’s ass. Frate tenses beneath him, whimpering loudly enough that Ronald can hear it as a moan, this time, and Ronald pulls his fingers from his mouth and reaches out while he speaks.

“This’ll go better for you if you relax,” he says. “I’m just gonna take care of myself, here.” He pushes the wet of his touch against Frate’s entrance, urging against the other to make the direction of his intent clear before he speaks. “All you have to do is lie still and let me. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Frate’s head shifts against the cushions, his hair rumpling with the nod, and Ronald growls in his throat and leans in. “Say it out loud to me, Frate.”

“Yes,” Frate mumbles, but he’s shifting without being told, turning against the cushions so his head is pillowed against the sofa. Ronald can see the part of his lips and the dark of his lashes fluttering over his eyes; when Frate swallows and blinks hard to fight towards coherency the desire for him knots tighter in Ronald’s balls. “I want you to take care of it for me, Ronald.”

Ronald growls, but the sound is heat more than protest, and Frate’s lashes dip to surrender rather than lifting into anxiety. “Good,” he says. “That’s a good boy, Frate.” And he ducks his head to watch as he slides his fingers apart so he can push one up and into Frate before him.

Frate tightens at the first push, instinct clenching tight around the force of Ronald’s finger stretching him open. Ronald frowns at bare skin and opens his mouth to issue a command to relax, but Frate’s strain is giving way as quickly as it formed, his resistance as weak here as in everything else. When Ronald pushes again Frate opens for him up to the first knuckle, and farther still when Ronald works in against him, and by the time Ronald has the whole of his finger within the other he can pull back and stroke forward again with almost ease. Frate is breathing hard, deep breaths that seem to strain in his narrow chest, but Ronald’s attention is turned on what he’s doing and the rising tide of anticipation clenching in his belly and tight in his balls.

“Good,” he says, purring the word into heat as he draws his hand free so he can spit over his fingers before reaching back out to urge them up and into Frate again. “Just relax, Frate, just like that.” He lets his hold on Frate’s ass go, freeing his grip while still working a pair of spit-wet fingers into the other’s body so he can pull his belt open one-handed. Frate tightens around him at the clink of the metal against itself, a moment of pressure before loosening again to the thrust of Ronald’s fingers, and Ronald works farther into him, pushing as deep as he can go before he pulls out entirely so he can spit into his palm for some additional wet for his own cock. His pants fall open to the work of his hand, his cock straining at them as if begging for freedom, and Ronald hooks a thumb into the loosened fabric so he can pull them free and palm some measure of wet against his shaft. Frate is still lying over the couch before him, his eyes half-lidded and out-of-focus and hands slack where they fell, and Ronald tightens his grip around himself for a moment before he leans in to brace his palm to the cushion over Frate’s shoulder and tip in to shadow the other’s body with his own.

Frate’s eyes widen when Ronald guides the head of his cock against the other’s body and starts to push to urge himself in. Ronald’s slicked himself with spit but the pressure is still different, a new angle and a new shape; but Frate is soft for him already, stretched open around the persuasion of his fingers and eased to surrender by the persuasion of his voice, and when Ronald lets the weight of his body rock forward the force is enough to sink him past the strain at Frate’s entrance and into the grip of the other’s body. Ronald grunts satisfaction, and drops his hold at the base of his cock to grip tight at Frate’s hip instead, and when he moves forward once more it’s with the hold of his hand against the other’s body to brace against the thrust of his hips to push himself deeper.

Frate is unresisting. Ronald’s fingers worked him open enough to allow entrance, at least, and other than that first instinctive response he is as passive as he ever is, exhaustion and intoxication and his own release apparently having stripped him of any strength he might have mustered otherwise. But his eyes are still open, his lashes shifting with each particularly deep thrust Ronald takes, and his body is tight enough that Ronald’s breathing is dragging rougher with each forward stroke he takes to sheathe himself in the grip of Frate’s body. He has to move slow, like he’s persuading Frate to open for him with each motion he takes; but Frate does ease open, until Ronald is moving in a slow-motion version of his preferred rhythm to sink the whole length of his cock into Frate with each forward thrust.

“That’s it,” Ronald growls, letting the heat rising along his spine gain voice at his lips as he works himself over Frate, seeking out his own satisfaction from the heavy-lidded aftereffects of the other’s pleasure. Frate’s lashes are fluttering like he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, his lips parted on some voiceless sound that Ronald can’t parse as a groan or a sigh, but the fact of his surrender is unquestionable, with the taut heat of his body gripping the length of Ronald’s cock every time the other rocks forward to sink himself into Frate before him. “Just relax and let me take care of everything, Frate, just like I always have.” His pace is slow, forced to such by the friction of their bodies sliding together, but Ronald’s breathing is still rasping to heat, pleasure is still knotting at his spine and tightening in his balls. Frate’s eyes are completely shut, now, his mouth open and body shifting against Ronald’s hold with each thrust into him; Ronald leans in closer, angling his elbow to press near to the tumble of pale hair around Frate’s face.

“You’re good at this,” Ronald tells him, bringing himself forward into Frate to punctuate. “I knew I could count on you.” Frate’s lips part, his head tips back; his lashes work like he’s trying to find coherency, like he’s seeking out the clarity of vision long since lost to intoxication and pleasure and sensation. Ronald groans, voicing the strain clenching in his belly as he tightens his fingers on Frate to hold them steady against the forward stroke of his hips.

“You feel so good, Frate,” Ronald says. He doesn’t know if Frate is listening, doesn’t know if his own voice is audible; the words are jumping high in his throat, lifting themselves on the same strain tightening towards inevitability in him. “I knew you would, I was sure--” as his thighs jerk without his intention, as his body clenches taut on anticipation. Ronald’s jaw sets, his speech dying to the tension of heat; and then his hips jerk forward, he grunts low, and his cock spurts with the heat of his release. Beneath him, Frate’s eyes go wide, his lips part on a moan, and Ronald’s body flexes with another rush of sensation in answer, giving up the tension of his desire to the grip of Frate’s body beneath him. Ronald leans in over Frate, letting his orgasm run its course through him and into Frate, until finally the last of the tremors have passed and he can draw a breath and look to collecting himself again.

Frate doesn’t move when Ronald slides back out of him. His eyes are open but his focus is absent, his attention wandering some paths of his own making instead of lingering in the present. Ronald cleans himself up first, tucking his softening cock back into his pants and buckling them around his hips before he tucks his shirt in; it’s only then that he turns to working Frate’s clothes back up around his hips and pulling the other back over so he can fasten his belt again. Frate is as unresisting to that force as to everything else; he sprawls over the couch, slack under Ronald’s hands as the other works him back to the barest modicum of decency. His shirt is past help, both for the drying stain at the bottom hem and the wrinkles Frate’s weight have put into it; Ronald leaves it untucked and loose around Frate’s hips before leaning in to demand attention from those dazed eyes again.

“You’re going to want a bath when you wake up,” he says, speaking clearly to increase the chances that Frate will actually hear him. It’s enough to pull a blink from those heavy eyes, at least, and urge Frate’s attention to Ronald’s face, which is good enough for the present. “You’ll be sore for a while. You’ll want to change your shirt, too.”

Frate ducks his head forward into what might be a nod. “Okay,” he says, sounding dazed almost out of coherency for even that one word. He turns his head against the cushions and shifts as if to press himself to greater comfort against them. “Can I sleep now?”

Ronald smiles and lifts his hand to pat gently at Frate’s cheek. “Sure,” he says. “Get some rest.” He shifts back onto his knees so he can climb off the couch and leave Frate to take up the space himself. His coat is still draped over the chair where he cast it; Ronald collects it and shakes it out before sliding it back on over his shoulders and tugging it into place. “I’ll bring you some more later this week, too.”

Frate’s head shifts, another nod to go along with the curve of nearly-a-smile at his lips. “Okay,” he says, and yawns before turning his head to the side and shutting his eyes. He’s asleep almost at once, before Ronald has even finished buttoning his coat; Ronald pauses to look down at Frate sprawled over the couch. The shadows under his eyes are heavy, smudged deep as bruises under the pale of his lashes; with the slack ease of sleep on his features he looks years younger, more the child he sometimes acts than the man his years should make him. Ronald watches him sleep for a minute -- the rhythm of breathing in his chest, the wrinkled shirt twisted around his hips, the open tilt of his knee where his leg has fallen wide -- and then he steps forward and around the couch so he can find one of the blankets folded up behind it. He shakes it out and drapes it over Frate on the sofa, covering the disarray of the other’s clothes as much as the vulnerability of his position, and when he steps past the table he picks up the unfolded paper to crumple it in his fist as well. The lamp clicks off under his touch, the room dims to the dark of the night outside, and Ronald steps to the door to let himself out into the hallway before drawing it shut behind him to leave Frate in uninterrupted shadows.


End file.
